


For The Team

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Language, M/M, PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES AT THE BEGINNING, alcohol use, mature themes, non-graphic mention of semi non-con sex, non-graphic mention of underage sex, read responsibly my darlings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: The long eyelashes shading Freddie's eyes didn't quite disguise their pain. "It's not that drastic, darling. I just took one for the team, that's all.""No, that's not all!" Roger scrubbed his hands through his hair, searching his befogged mind for some other way to define the expression. "Brian coming in to re-record his solos when he'd just got out of hospital was 'taking one for the team,' for fuck's sake! 'Taking one for the team' doesn't describe letting Norman Fucking Sheffield use you like this! Christ, Freddie, how do I make you see reason?"





	For The Team

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction and conjecture. My theory is that Freddie's unrestrained vitriol toward Norman Sheffield wasn't just professional but also personal. I understand that the topics within (child abuse and semi-consensual sex) may be too much for sensitive readers, in which case I strongly suggest closing this window.

Roger enjoyed weddings. He looked great in a suit. He got to hang out with his friends where food and alcohol were free for the asking. He could take the piss out of the groom like no one else. Then there were the girls, desperate to be admired, desperate to be "next." Roger picked out a bridesmaid, a brunette with a sweet, heart-shaped face and moonlight in her dark eyes, and after just a couple of dances she was all but swooning at his feet. Now, several hours later, she was dozing in his bed, her pink taffeta confection of a dress lying in ruins on the floor. 

Oh, Roger enjoyed weddings. 

John's wedding had been short and simple, apart from Freddie's ostentatious, feather-laden entrance with Mary and some other girl on either side of him. Veronica's parents looked at John as if he were absconding with their most precious gem—which he had, of course, leading to the quickly planned nuptials. Veronica had been lovely in the distracted way of brides too caught up in lace and marzipan to think clearly. She wasn't Roger's type, but John was ridiculously in love so that was all that mattered. Brian had spent his evening trying to make conversation with the aunties and grannies in schoolboy Polish, winning the hearts of Veronica's elderly relatives and making Roger despair of Brian ever, ever getting laid again. 

Yes, Roger enjoyed weddings, provided that they weren't his.

Sated and still rather tipsy, he was toying with the idea of a round of sex involving pancakes and syrup when he heard a loud, frantic knock on his front door. He glanced at...oh, Christ, what WAS her name?...but she didn't seem to react to the noise. Roger got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants that had seen better days, and went to find out who on earth could be making such a racket in the middle of the night. 

He opened the door, shivering at the burst of cold air. Freddie, still in his outlandish getup from the wedding but with no coat on, stood on the doorstep and blew on his clasped hands, releasing a strong smell of alcohol. "Roger, darling, I've had the most frightful row with Mary. Can I stay here?" 

"Yeah, of course! Come in before you freeze!" Roger shut the door and pulled an afghan from the back of the sofa. "Here, put this on. I'll make some tea." 

"Oh, no, you've got company," Freddie said through chattering teeth. He pointed woozily at a pair of lacy pink panties. "Or are they yours, dear?" 

Shit. 

"Not mine." Roger scooped them up, hoping not to find the matching bra out in the open as well, and went back into the bedroom. 

The bridesmaid—Harriet? Heather?—was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking with distaste at the hideous taffeta gown lying on the floor. One sleeve was more or less off and the zipper was broken. 

"I'm afraid it's rather done for," Roger admitted, smirking at the memory of peeling the offensively pink gown off of—Helen? Heidi? "I can get you jeans and a sweatshirt." 

"I don't mind the dress," the girl said with a dismissive glance at the frock. "It was hideous." 

Roger fumbled in a drawer and came up with an old pair of jeans and an Oxford sweatshirt that someone else had left in his flat. He placed them on the bed and put the panties on top of the pile. "Sorry, I meant to let you sleep over but my friend's having an emergency. Can I call a taxi for you?" 

She tipped her head to one side. "Seriously? You don't remember me driving you home after the reception?" 

He didn't. 

"Never mind," she continued. "I'll be out of your hair in a flash." She flapped her hand at the door, indicating that he needed to let her dress in private. Roger gladly vacated the bedroom and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

"Do you actually possess any tea?" Freddie called out from the sitting room. 

"Yes. Now, fuck off and let me fix it." He didn't mention that Brian had brought him a large supply because he was tired of Roger offering him tea that he didn't have. What Freddie didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them. 

Roger heard the bedroom door open and moments later he could make out the buzz of voices in the sitting room. He took the milk out of the fridge, sniffed it, and gagged at the stench. Sugar would have to do. He finished making tea and brought out two steaming mugs, wincing when he realised that he should have prepared one for—Hannah?—as well. 

Freddie was sitting up as best he could, given how drunk he was. "Have your keys in your hand before you leave here, honey. This neighborhood is just not safe for a cute thing like you." 

_HONEY!_

"Would you like some tea, Honey?" Roger asked smoothly. 

"It's Hayley, and no thank you." She stood on tiptoe and kissed Roger's cheek. "This was fun. Do me a favour and toss that ghastly dress in the bin." Freddie got a much softer kiss from her. "It was nice to meet you, Freddie. I hope things work out for you." 

What did that mean? 

Without another word Hayley took her keys out of her purse and strode purposefully out of the door, the dyed-pink heels clashing with the casual clothes Roger had provided. 

"She seems sweet," Freddie remarked as he took a sip of tea. His hands were shaking so hard that Roger was afraid the hot liquid would splash out and burn him. "You should go after her. I can stop by tomorrow—" 

"Freddie." 

"I just came by to chat, I don't mean to intrude." 

"You didn't come here in the middle of the night, drunk off your ass, for a simple chat. So, what happened with Mary?" 

"We had a row."  
  
"Yes, you told me. What was it about?" 

Freddie set the mug down and sagged against the back of the sofa. "The wedding. John's wedding. Mary wants one of her own." 

"Well, you have been engaged since about the late middle ages, so it's not a completely random notion." Roger blew on his tea to cool it, took a sip, then set his mug aside as well. If what he thought was about to happen was imminent, Freddie was going to need a hug. 

"I can't give her what she wants. I love her, but it's not..." Freddie's sorrowful gaze went straight to Roger's heart, and something inside of him twanged like a broken guitar string. "I had to tell her tonight that I can't marry her. I think you...you may have guessed why." 

Roger sighed and put a hand on Freddie's wrist. "I was wondering when you were going to tell me," he murmured. 

Freddie lowered his head, tears standing in his eyelashes. "I was hoping I'd never have to. It's stupid, really, it's not like you couldn't figure it out. Does Brian know, too?" 

"There were some very, very good-looking boys in our dressing rooms, Fred." 

And, according to Brian, there had been some very, very good-looking boys in the hotel rooms he shared with Freddie on tour. It had taken a lot of alcohol and coaxing to get Brian to admit the reason WHY he spent so many nights in the lobby reading books and crashing on the bus the next morning. 

Sighing, Freddie sank even further under the afghan. "What about John?" 

"As far as I know, he's not gay," Roger said brightly, waggling his eyebrows at Freddie. "Sorry. Yeah, he figured it out." 

By tacit agreement Roger and Brian had not involved John in their discoveries, but after a few weeks John surprised them by casually inquiring over breakfast, _So, Freddie's gay after all, is that right?  
_

"No, don't be like that," Roger insisted as Freddie cowered and covered his face. "Listen. He doesn't CARE. Neither do Brian and I. We just want you to be happy. I know you're not, not right now, or you wouldn't have turned up here in the middle of the night, plastered." Freddie whined in protest but Roger ignored him. "But someday you'll find the right guy." 

"You really, truly don't care?" Freddie asked in a thin little voice as he peered at Roger over the afghan. 

"More skirt for the rest of us, mate," Roger said, reaching over to sling his arm over Freddie's shoulders. He felt the cold that clung to Freddie's body like a shroud and hugged him tightly. "You should drink your tea." 

"Mmm. It needs something in it." 

The pong from the milk carton reappeared in Roger's memory. He squinted and shook his head. "Milk's gone off, I'm afraid. It's kind of...solid, now." 

"Your housekeeping skills remain absolutely repulsive. No, I meant something STRONGER." 

Roger scrubbed his hand through his hair. "I think there's some brandy somewhere. Is that good in tea? Or ever?" 

"It'll do, darling. Here, you'll catch your death walking about with no shirt on," Freddie said as he took the afghan off and wrapped it around Roger. 

He removed it and dropped it right back over Freddie. "I'll put on a shirt. You need to stay covered up; you're frozen down to the bone." 

Finding a warm jumper was easier than finding the rather dusty bottle of brandy sitting at the back of a cupboard. Roger grabbed it and opened it on the way back to Freddie. "Say when." 

"Just a splash. No, more of a splash, there's a love." Freddie sipped his boozy tea and shivered. "It's fucking freezing in here."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Roger picked up a corner of the afghan and huddled underneath it. "If Trident paid me a bit more for all my hard work, I could afford to put on the heat." 

When Freddie took in a sharp breath, blanching, Roger feared that he was going to be sick. "Fred? You okay?"  
  
Freddie nodded silently and set the mug down. He was, to Roger's dismay, weeping openly, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth as sobs shook his body. "I need to tell you something." 

What more could there possibly be to tell? Roger took Freddie's other hand in his and ran his thumb gently along the veins. "Okay," he said after a few moments of silence. "In your own time, Freddie." 

Using the afghan to wipe his eyes, Freddie sat nearer to Roger, shoulder to shoulder. "You know about what happened to me at school. About the stuff with the boys, right?" 

"Yeah, we traded 'boys' school students do stupid shit' stories' a lot, remember?" 

They had, but in retrospect Freddie's more detailed account seemed to point directly to this evening's revelation. 

"I know, dear. But in my case, it wasn't just boys." 

"There were girls at your school?" 

"Roger." 

Roger stared at Freddie for long, uncomfortable moments. 

"It wasn't just the other boys. It was men. Teachers, staff. They'd pick on boys they thought were 'delicate' or 'fey.' And what little boy could fit that description more than I?" He picked up a cushion and began turning it upside down and back again. "It started off with hugs, or sitting on their laps. Then it was a matter of exchanging a blowjob for not getting caned, or to keep a friend from being sent down. Pretty soon I was the go-to boy for that sort of thing." 

Roger's muscles tensed at the thought of the men who had committed such heinous acts. He wanted to go to India and knock the shit out of everyone who had ever even thought about hurting that frightened, gentle boy. "Did you tell your parents?" 

"I wrote to my father." 

"And he immediately arranged for you to come home to Zanzibar, where you'd be safe?" 

"He told me to toughen up and not put myself into the sort of situation where that could happen," Freddie said with a short, mirthless chuckle. "He said that sodomy meant being in league with the Daevas." At Roger's blank look, he clarified: "Being a devil-worshipper. In short, it was my own fault, and he reminded me that I'd insulted my faith and brought shame upon the family into the bargain." 

"Fuck." Roger leaned over, groaning. He had never thought much of Mr. Bulsara and this cruel similarity to his own father made his blood run cold. 

"Maybe it was a bit my fault," Freddie mused aloud. "I could've covered up being attracted to boys, acted more butch, and maybe they wouldn't have been tempted to—" 

"No!" shouted Roger. "Grown men taking advantage of a little boy is THEIR fault and no one else's!" 

Freddie gave him a fond, shy glance. "Thank you, darling. Anyway, it wasn't entirely awful. At least I learned some useful skills." He started picking at the blue yarn of the afghan, keeping his eyes lowered the way he did when he was talking about something he didn't really want to discuss. "I've had to use them a...a few times. Here and there." 

"Freddie, if you don't cut to the chase right now, I swear to God—" 

"I've let Norman fuck me!"

Roger was suddenly, achingly sober. "You WHAT? Norman SHEFFIELD?" 

"It was the only way!" 

The bitter sense of dread working its way through Roger's body left him even colder than the air in the room. "The only way to...do what?" When Freddie just shook his head and turned away, Roger put his hands on either side of his face and rested his forehead against Freddie's. "The only way to do what?" he inquired again, softer. 

"To get what we needed." 

"I don't understand." Roger sat back, keeping Freddie's hands clasped securely in his. "How did sex get what..." The realisation washed over him and left him reeling. "Oh, no. No, fuck, no." 

"It started when Brian got sick and we had to come back from America. Trident wanted the album done, so Brian dragged himself to the studio night after night, remember?" 

He couldn't forget, no matter how much he wanted to. The sight of Brian, pale and worn, playing even as he was being eaten away from within, was seared in his memory. Even worse had been the look on Brian's face when they had to break the news that his work had been erased. 

"Yeah," Roger replied, sounding as if the word had been punched out of him. 

"When he had the ulcer surgery, Norman came to me and said the studio still wanted the album done on time. John had refused to do the guitar work—good lad—so the next step was to fire Brian and get a replacement." 

"Jesus!" Roger twisted in his seat, eyes wide. "You didn't tell me that!"

"I didn't have to. I...persuaded Sheffield to hold off, to wait until Brian was better." 

"Persuaded, how?" 

Freddie's lips, white from pressing them together so tightly, began to quiver. "I asked him what I could do to give us more time. He just laughed at me. I've had experiences with getting things I needed from men who fancied me. So I...I got on my knees. I begged him—do whatever you want to me, just don't break up the band." 

It was unimaginable: Freddie pleading, Freddie BEGGING, Freddie falling to his knees and offering himself up as a sacrifice for his little family.

"Oh, God, Freddie, you didn't have to...oh, shit." Images and words raced through Roger's brain until all he could do was utter scrambled phrases. "He used you...Jesus, Freddie..."

"That's not all."  
  
Roger's rant stopped mid-word and his heart began to pound. "It happened more than once?" he breathed, the words sour in his mouth. 

"We needed things!" Freddie exclaimed. "More amps, better tape, more people on the road to help us out. Trident doesn't GIVE anything unless they GET something in return, and for Sheffield, that meant ME! Do you have any idea what it costs to get a Steinway in the studio?" 

"It shouldn't have cost you your BODY!" Coughing, tasting bile, Roger grabbed the brandy bottle and downed a large amount of it in a single swallow. "Tell me it's not still going on." 

Freddie sighed. "I can't do that, darling. I tried to stop, several times, but Norman threatened to tell you three what I'd been doing." 

"Oh, fuck." 

"The last time was a couple of months ago." He turned away, picked up his mug, and poured more brandy into it before taking a long sip of tea. "When John and Ronnie got 'in trouble' and wanted to get married, her parents insisted that he buy a house first. He went to Norman for an advance, something to help him get the down payment together even if he ended up having to pay it back later. Norman turned him down." 

"Christ." 

"You should've seen John. He came over and said he'd have to quit the band, get a job as an...engineer thingy, whatever the hell they do. I told him to stay, that I'd take care of it." 

Roger remembered how ecstatic John was about the house. "Deacy thought Sheffield had 'seen the light' and come through with the money. But that's not how it happened, is it?" 

"I didn't have a choice. He was going to have to LEAVE us, he was SHATTERED, Roger!" 

"I know how he feels!" 

"Oh, darling, don't..." 

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I just...I can't imagine." With an effort he forced himself to lower the volume of his voice. "What you went through for us is incredible. That you thought you had to subject yourself to his abuse, for us...it's just..." 

The long eyelashes shading Freddie's eyes didn't quite disguise their pain. "It's not that drastic, darling. I just took one for the team, that's all." 

"No, that's not _all_!" Roger scrubbed his hands through his hair, searching his befogged mind for some other way to define the expression. "Brian coming in to re-record his solos when he'd just got out of hospital was 'taking one for the team,' for fuck's sake! 'Taking one for the team' doesn't describe letting Norman Fucking Sheffield use you like this! Christ, Freddie, how do I make you see reason?" 

Only after he'd done it did Roger realise that he had formed fists. With a hiss, Freddie shied away from Roger's arms and flung the afghan to the ground, recoiling as if to deflect a blow. Of course, Roger thought with a shudder. Of course he should have realised the connection Freddie's abused brain would make between shouting and hitting. God knew that Roger understood that as well as anyone in the world. 

Roger raised his hands, palms outward, and swallowed down the intense desire to start screaming and never stop. "Freddie, relax. What you've done is..." he said as gently as he could, "I just...I don't want to believe it." 

"I've prostituted myself," Freddie mourned, "and now you know about it, and now you find me disgusting. I get that, Roger. I'll just..." Bereft of the protective cocoon of duvet and drummer, he looked so small and terrified that Roger felt tears spring to his eyes. Freddie made a move to rise, but Roger tugged at his wrists, pulling him back down and covering him again. 

"Shut up, Freddie," Roger whispered, his voice heavy with the tears he was about to shed. "Just...God, c'mere." The strong desire to murder any and every person who had ever wounded this angel of a man was still there—and the list included Bomi Bulsara—but right now, at this instant, Roger's only conscious thought was that he needed to console his friend. "It's all right. I've got you, ssh, I've got you." 

"I'm so sorry, Roger." 

"Don't." Roger pressed his lips to the crown of Freddie's head, the thick black hair tickling his nose. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've paid attention, I should've stopped you. All three of us—we should've done SOMETHING!" 

"Promise me you won't tell them, ever. Not Brian, and especially not Deacy," demanded Freddie, his voice surprisingly strong after his emotional outbursts. 

Roger could easily promise not to tell Deacy, who despite being a newly married man and father-to-be was still endearingly naïve. Not telling Brian would be more difficult because Roger tended to blurt things out to him.

"They'll find out sooner or later, Fred," Roger cautioned. 

"No! Not if we're careful!" 

"We're not the only people who know. What would happen if Sheffield makes good on his threat and tells Deacy? You know how embarrassed he gets when someone lends him so much as a fiver for some drinks—how could he ever hope to repay you for what you did?" 

Freddie's face softened affectionately as it always did when John's name was mentioned. "He doesn't owe me anything." 

"Yeah, I can't wait until you try to convince him of that!" Roger inhaled, his lungs shrieking for a cigarette to calm them. "And Brian? He's already the single most self-loathing person we know. Imagine what he'd do if Sheffield told him why he's still a member of Queen? He'd jump off a fucking bridge, Freddie!"  
  
"All the more reason not to tell him!" Bristling, Freddie jerked away and stared Roger down until it was obvious there was no changing his mind.

Roger nodded curtly. "All right. I promise. We've got to make other plans, though." He opened his arms wide and Freddie half-fell into them. 

"Okay," Freddie mouthed against Roger's collarbone.

"We've got to get the band away from Trident and Sheffield. We need to find someone who doesn't expect your feet on his back to be part of the deal." It was blunt, too blunt, and he regretted the words the instant they left his lips. 

Freddie curled up against him, trembling. Roger brushed the hair back from his face, alarmed at how clammy his forehead felt. Clawlike, Freddie's hands dug into the flesh of Roger's arms hard enough to bruise, but Roger made no attempt to dislodge his fingers. How could he complain about a few marks on his body when Freddie had let Sheffield bruise his very soul?

"I'm here, Freddie," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere, I'm just going to hold on to you for as long as you want." He felt Freddie's lips move but couldn't make out the words. "What was that, love?" 

"Don't leave me," Freddie sobbed. "I know I'm spoilt now and I don't deserve you, but please, please don't—" 

It was an enormous effort for Roger to stay calm, to keep his voice gentle, when his heart was thundering in his chest and his blood was pounding in his ears. "You've got it backwards. I don't deserve you. You're a hero, Freddie." When Freddie made a disapproving noise, Roger just clasped him tighter. "Just hang on to me. Take a deep breath and hold it, can you do that for me? That's good, now let it out slowly, and let's go again." Eventually Freddie's tightly wound body began to relax and the tears stopped falling. "There we go, you're okay now." 

"So tired," mumbled Freddie, the toll of his panic attack leaving him enervated enough to sag limply in Roger's embrace. With a sorrowful smile Roger pulled him to his feet and half-dragged him to the bedroom, the afghan still clutched in his hand. Freddie pulled back the covers but Roger stopped him. 

"Wait a minute, the sheets are probably..." 

"I'm not sleeping in your wet spot, darling," Freddie said, sounding more like himself despite his exhaustion. 

"Shut up." Roger yanked the sheet off of the bed and covered the mattress with the remains of the pink taffeta gown. He spread the afghan over the dress, then guided Freddie down and covered him with the blankets. 

"You'll stay, won't you?" Freddie entreated. 

Roger gave him a lopsided smile as he crawled into the bed. "Would I deprive you of the best heat source in all of London? Get over here." 

Freddie peered up at him, his dark eyes full of amazed devotion. Those eyes still lacked their usual lustre, but if it took the rest of his life Roger would see to it that the shine would return and be twice as bright. He drew his friend closer, listening to the tempo of his breathing as it became slower and more even, feeling the clutch of Freddie's arms begin to relax at last. "G'night, Rog," yawned Freddie in a voice just this side of slumber. 

"Night, Fred." 

Sleep would be a long time coming that night, but somehow Roger didn't care. He deliberated the events of the night until he began to formulate ideas about how to extricate the band from its indentured servitude. They would be all right in the end. Roger would make certain of that. John would be able to take care of his little family. Brian, healthy at last, would be keen to create more music. Most importantly, however, Roger would ensure Freddie's safety from the sharks who were only too gleeful to feed on his body as well as his enormous heart. 

"I promise," Roger whispered into Freddie's hair over and over as he waited for the dawn of the new day. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to @royaltyisshe64 for beta and great ideas, and to @epherians for being a superb cheerleader. Pass the champagne, darlings!
> 
> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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